


To His Coy Mistress

by craple



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Minor Character Death, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon does not want to obey, because he will and forever be a horrible person, more so than he already is if he does. But Camille presses her lips against his with more force than before, fingers brush lightly against the pulse on his neck, and he loses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To His Coy Mistress

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. Future-fic _aka_ something I wish would happen to Simon because we need a badass vampire and Camille is just so fucking perfect. Yes, that is enough.

The iron salty taste of blood on his dry stiff tongue does not make him feel much better than before as it should be, because that’s what blood does to all vampires, and yet; he cannot bring himself to like it, as much as he despises it, considering it comes from his eyes. Darkest of brown, so dark and so very cold that they look almost like black, have taken their turn into the brightest shade of crimson, with onyx diamond-shaped pupil in the middle. The mark of Cain on his forehead shines dimly through his damp brown fringe, looking unpleasantly ridiculous as usual, every time it delivers the seven folds upon those who may bring harm to him.

Simon despises the feeling of helplessness that is currently attacking his mind—as he does not have a beating heart any longer and his mind is the only part of him that still works properly despite the fact that _he’s already dead_ —but he loathes the scene in front of him most, with every fibre of his being. There are blood, and heads and white bones underneath ripped flesh and torn skin and shattered muscles, he’s sure. His eyes land on a figure on the ground, his mother, so very beautiful without her neck, fresh crimson blood staining the expensive sapphire silk of her thin nightgown. She does not look peaceful as what he often imagines her supposed to be in her death. But again, he supposes he never imagines her to die with her throat ripped open as well.

There are wet trails down his cheekbones. He looks down at a puddle of water in the middle of a pool of blood, sees his reflection on the surface ( _his cheeks are stained with trails of blood, falling from his eyes, the rational substitute of humans’ tears; his hair, the colour of black mocha, mussed and ruffled and stained with blood; his skin, pale-silver and silk-smooth, glows underneath the dim light of the moon; his lips, thin and wet and stained redder than any apples_ ), sees the reflection of the moon, shines upon him like he’s a fallen angel of some sort ( _because, Camille says, he looks astonishingly beautiful in every sense of way, particularly in the way he sinks his teeth into the neck of his very own mother--_ )

“Simon,” a voice calls out, more alluring than Beethoven’s Fur Elise, sharper than the Shadowhunters’ dagger, sweeter than the sweetest taste of honey ( _he forgets the taste of everything long ago, but he remembers that honey and a teenage girl with B-Negative tastes quite similar_ ). Simon turns his head around and looks at Camille—always perfect, always beautiful, with her soft blonde hair that shines, curling perfectly around the crook of her slender pale-milk neck, and the big bright emerald eyes that never cease to amaze him—standing a few meters away, one arm crosses over her chest, the other is holding a black umbrella. He doesn’t realize that it has been raining for hours, doesn’t realize that the puddle of water he’s looking at is actually a piece of mirror he broke from her mother’s room, doesn’t realize that Camille is standing by his mother’s bedroom door, and doesn’t realize that the roof of his mother’s bedroom has been torn apart, not by the seven-folds, but by his own hands.

He swallows nothing but blood, forcing its way down his throat, poisoning him with its metallic taste and ashes. The blood of a vampire, especially his own, doesn’t taste quite as pleasurable as the taste of humans’ blood or the Shadowhunters’ ( _he has tasted a lot, but none of them tasted as good as Jace’s_ ). He wants to scream for blood and more blood and more blood other than the blood that is offered in front of him, _his mother’s_ , because he’s a horrible person to ask for more. But Camille smiles, a little bit sadly that Simon wants nothing but change it into that of happiness and mischievousness, and suddenly she’s in front of him, hair flows, umbrella falls, forgotten. She touches his cheek and brushes his lips with the faintest feel of her lips, her tongue flicks out at the blood on the corner of his lips, and she whispers:

_“Drink, Simon,”_ she murmurs against his lips, pulls back, and touches his lips again. _“Drink, then come with me.”_ She adds, smiling lightly, the good kind of smile that makes Simon wants to smile despite the circumstances.

Simon does not want to obey, because he will and forever be a horrible person, more so than he already is if he does. But Camille presses her lips against his with more force than before, fingers brush lightly against the pulse on his neck, and he loses it. The blood in his pulse starts racing and his fangs snap out of its cages.

Camille smiles softly and Simon shudders and sinks his fangs into his mother’s cold wrist with a strangled cry.


End file.
